The Conversion of Sherlock Holmes
by Robina Snyder
Summary: Sherlock returns home after his supposed suicide, not only very alive but also a newly converted Christian. Sherlock struggles with not only himself and the people around him, but the effects of his suicide and his strange relationship with James Moriarty.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was a man of science, a man of discovery, or facts. He wasn't a spiritualist, he was a materialist. That was how he worked. He'd been in churches as grand as the Sistine Chapel and been unmoved, knowing that a sanctuary was made to be large, high ceilinged and decked out in more regalia than most palaces for a simple reason: to inspire awe and fear. An appropriate feeling for a patriarchal religion based on an all seeing all knowing God.

His mother had hoped if she'd taken him to some of the more artistic buildings of worship that he'd catch onto some kind of faith. She'd hoped it for both her boys, but logic had prevailed on all counts. This was why he hadn't expected faith to come up and knock him over the head in a dying Methodist church in north Georgia.

Protestantism has invented the modern American University. Harvard, the first American university was based on teaching students the Unitarianist idea of the trinity, otherwise known as the positively mind breaking idea that God is three beings existing as one being. The amazing lack of logic in this idea should have been enough to keep Sherlock Holmes away from the faith at all costs. Yet a part of him appreciated that the Protestants taught their religion like a school: strap someone into their seat/pew with guilt and social pressure to stay still and awake during the lecture/sermon. It was a very nice use of discomfort to keep people listening. Even if Sherlock found his university lectures dreadfully dull, he still had to applaud the makers of the system. At least he actually listened to things, which could very hard to make him do.

Why Sherlock Holmes was in dying church in north Georgia was very simply because of Lestrade's sniper. The one for Mrs. Hudson had been found easily. He lived across the street and pointed out to Sherlock that since his employer was now dead and he'd already been paid, there was no point to kill Mrs. Hudson anymore. He also rather fancied her jam, and so would be happy to stay nearby and protect the old woman for a price that Sherlock was sure Mycroft would be willing to pay.

The sniper next door was also how he'd gotten the identity of the two men who'd been in charge of killing John and Lestrade. John's sniper was easy to find: Sebastian Moran wasn't really someone who hid. He just remained dangerous enough that Sherlock couldn't approach him. Mycroft had men on him while Moran was in some African country Sherlock hadn't cared to remember, helping some war effort that Sherlock really didn't give a damn about. Moran was the one to worry about.

The man who was Lestrade's sniper really wasn't a threat anymore. It was amazing how with all vengeance in his heart, Sherlock could chase a man half way across the world and still not get to be the one to kill the man. But then motorcycles were a pretty wonderful way to die if you were stupid enough to drive one. Too bad about the truck driver.

The funeral was to be Sunday afternoon at his mother's church. Sherlock planned to attend to be sure the man was really dead. Sherlock decided it was just easier to attend the service and hang around nearby for the actual funeral. That was why he sat in the pew that Sunday, listening to the sermon despite himself, chained by past memories of his University days.

Truth be told he couldn't remember what the pastor actually said. It probably wasn't important anyway. What was important was the feeling that hit him in the chest like a speeding bullet. One moment he'd been sullen, cynical, and dissecting every little thing the pastor had to say, simply because he had nothing else to do and drugging his fingers on the pew ahead of him or getting up and leaving would have earned him unwanted attention. The next moment something inside him clicked, and he felt so incredibly whole. He was momentarily breathless, wondering how he'd never realized how particularly empty he'd felt before. Then everything melted away, everything that he'd always considered his melt away, and he was left sitting in an overly maroon sanctuary, no longer hearing the words that were being said.

To examine the feeling he would have said it felt like everything he'd ever cared about was merely cast aside, burnt in a fire until they were made even stronger than before. "_You're boring, you're on the side of the angels," _Moriarty's voice rang in his head.

"_Who says that an angel will not destroy an enemy of the lord?"_ Said another voice, still, small quiet, and painfully powerful.

He wondered then… whoever said that who he was and the life he lived was incompatible with a life with God. He'd never thought of himself as more than a man who was alone. John's presence had been a revelation. For once in his life he'd seen that not only could someone (and a real person, a really good man) care about him, but that he was really worth caring about. He was worth people giving a damn. And he'd had to throw away that person, that one person in his life that really mattered so that he could protect them. He'd never been so alone as the past few months.

Sometimes he would lie awake, feeling just sick. He thought it was anger, or guilt, or something to do with Moriarty, or John, or the damn snipers he was hunting. What he hadn't realized until that moment in the pew was that what he was feeling wasn't to do with anyone else. It was all about him. He, he was being controlled by his anger and his pain and his need to hurt others. He'd been consumed by emotions, by feeling, by things he didn't need.

"_It's not that you don't need them," _the voice said. _"You don't need to be controlled like that. You know how not to be. Emotions don't make the sin, the action does. You've been too controlled by your pain. If you go back to John like this you won't be who you used to be."_

There's no such thing as back, he thought. John wasn't going to forgive him.

"_You don't need that guilt, not like this. You don't need to question that part of your life."_

What do I need to question, then?

"_Are you really who you want to be?"_

Sherlock felt shocked by that question. He'd never really asked that before. He knew he'd never be a good man. He was no hero. He did things other people couldn't, but in effect he was less human because of it.

"_That will never be true." _

Isn't it?

"_John said you were the most human human-being he had ever known. Will you believe him, or will you believe a temporary and passing emotion?_"

That made sense. Sherlock was jolted out of his deep thoughts by everyone rising to sing a hymn. He opened the book and mouthed along, but made no sound. His mind had gone off somewhere, somewhere that had him chasing his tail out of confusion. When the song ended he just sat down and stopped listening.

He didn't feel alone anymore. The true… knowledge that there was something else, something bigger and stronger than him was staggering. Maybe Irene Adler hadn't been that far off with her assessment of his vicar costume. Maybe he had wanted to believe in a higher power. He couldn't imagine it. He's never cared about religions in general, except as something to know that he'd need for a case or observation, nothing more.

Yet at that moment it was like he'd been hit by lightening, right up through his shoes and out the top of his head. Unexpected was a word. Terrifying. Yet he was sure, he felt sure, against everything he'd studied and read that there was a god, not just a, but The God. Just one. Why? Why had this thought come at that moment?

"_It was the first time you listened." _

But I wasn't.

"_You were. To dissect you must observe and understand. You heard what you needed to and you understood." _The voice was blending into his mind. He wasn't sure if he was just hearing a voice, or having a conversation with himself. It was insane, completely insane.

And yet he'd never felt so safe in his entire life. Someone that understood him, wouldn't judge him for who he was… accepted him for it. John had been close, but even John didn't completely understand him… but God… acceptance, total acceptance, and love. No strings attached.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock jumped, turning around and seeing the old woman who'd been sitting behind him.

"You have such a lovely voice, it was a shame not to hear you on the last song," she said.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his normal voice slipping out of the fake but thoroughly believable American accent he'd worn so carefully before. "I'm afraid I wasn't up to it," he said.

"You heard something, didn't you?"

"Didn't everyone, wasn't that the point?"

"Sometimes we hear something that no one actually said, and it moves us beyond the words any man can say."

"How did-"

"A guess, a good one, apparently. I try to watch whatever guests we have… to look at them and figure out what they need, why they're here. You weren't here for the service, were you?"

"No," Sherlock said.

"Thought so… you didn't seem like you really cared what was being said… and then suddenly you cared very much."

"I don't think I cared at all," Sherlock said, but his voice sounded much weaker than he wished it would.

"I didn't know you were English," the woman said. "You've got such a lovely accent."

Sherlock looked momentarily stunned. He didn't even remember speaking normally. He was out of it, completely. "Yes, I suppose so. It' easier to cover it up when I'm traveling."

"Such a shame, it's a lovely voice," the woman said. She glanced around to where people were clearing out, moving around changing the drapings, collect the attendance sheets in the pews. "If you'd like to speak to pastor Tom, I'm sure he'd be happy to speak with you."

"No, I don't need to."

"_Yes you do, Sherlock Holmes. Stop being so proud and get your questions answered."_

"Well, maybe," Sherlock amended.

"Why don't we wait for the crowd to clear a bit? Everyone wants to see Tom when he's finished. I'll take you to see him when he's finished."

"Thanks," Sherlock said, not feeling up to giving the woman anymore than that.

"I'm Violet," the woman said. "Violet Jacobs," She said, offering her hand to shake, which Sherlock did not take.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. He was surprised to hear it come out of his own mouth. He slipped into silence, his mind running over the same information again and again. It was an odd thing to be trying to convince himself of something that he couldn't believe. It felt like in Dartmoor, when he'd seen the hound, but knew it couldn't be real. The logical part of his brain threw up every argument against the existence of God it could come up with until one part of the sermon floated to the top of his mind. 'Sometimes any excuse will do.' After that, Sherlock shut down the disbelief.

"Come on, Sherlock," Violet said, grabbing Sherlock's arm and dragging him up to the pulpit room where the pastors would change out of their robes. "Tom," the woman said. "This is Sherlock Holmes. He needs to speak with you."

"Yeah, sure," the older man said. He was in his 40s, balding just a bit in the back, but his hair was otherwise still fairly thick and brown. There was nothing at all extraordinary about his looks. He was a bit over weight, a bit tall, a bit balding, a bit scruffy, and innocuous. Completely innocuous. "We've got spaghetti lunch after the service, why don't we head over and we can talk there."

"No, Tom," the woman said. She was small, in her late 70s, but she seemed to tower over the two men. "I'll bring you something over, but you need to speak privately.

"Yes, Ms. Violet," the man said, waving a bit as the woman liked that. "Never, never disrespect or contradict the church lady. They will rip out your guys and feed them to the congregation as Brunswick stew."

"Noted," Sherlock said, glancing around. He was starting to feel giddy, and he couldn't explain why.

"Why don't we sit down," the pastor said, motioning to two arm chairs. He sat in one and waited so long that Sherlock felt he had to take the other. "So, how may I help you?"

"I'm not sure you can."

"Violet Jacobs thinks I can, so I can," Tom said. "And if I don't she'll kill me later, so I'd prefer to try."

"You want me to talk about my problem," Sherlock said.

"Talk about whatever you need to."

"Something happened during the service."

"Something I said?"

"No, not really."

"Damn," Tom said, causing Sherlock to cock his brow. "You think pastors aren't people too? People who happen to like television?"

Sherlock shook his head, his lips twitching a bit. "Something just… hit me… I don't know how to explain it very easily. There aren't words for it… just… feelings, things I'm not used to."

"Do you feel like God spoke to you?"

"Yes."

"Then that's probably what happened," the man said. "You're lucky… sometimes it doesn't happen. Methodists have a cradle to grave mentality. You grow up in it. Baptists have the born again experience… not that you can't as a Methodist, but as not a big thing."

"Born again?" Sherlock asked.

"Feels like you can take on the world… best experience in the world. You've realized how wonderful god is, and suddenly movies are better, jokes are funnier, colors brighter, girls prettier," he glanced at Sherlock who remained impassive. "Or boys," the man said with a shrug.

"I'm not interested in romantic encounters."

"Shame, if I'd had a face like yours I wouldn't have wanted to waste it." The pastor said and Sherlock scowled.

"The point?"

"It can be very painful at first… you feel like everything's been ripped from you, but then it's replaced with God… and nothing else even matters in comparison."

"Oh," Sherlock said. Is that what the giddy feeling was?

"_Yes."_

"Yes, oh… I take it something happened to do today."

"It's odd. It's irrational. I'm not… I've never believed in any… in anything or any person… not until recently."

"You had a conversion?"

"I made a friend."

"Ah… well that works too. What about now?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, smiling because he couldn't help himself and really didn't want to. "How long does this last?"

"Depends on the person. It normally fades slowly. You adjust to normal living again. Until then, try not to get yourself knocked out."

"Why would I?"

"Nothing's more annoying than a new convert, except maybe a newlywed. Honeymoons are meant to keep the happy couple away from society for a few weeks."

"And the converted?"

"Seminary, or a mission trip or something. You're about the right age, or younger. We just send them to do good work while they feel like they can conquer the world."

"You don't-"

"Talk like a stereotypical preacher, I know. I've just spent my life believing that truth comes from God, and that trying to hide something because it's ugly or uncomfortable is wrong."

Sherlock jumped up, feeling too energized to sit. "You think that, you really think that?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes?"

"Are you sure?"

"It's how I've lived my life. I could be wrong, but doubt it."

"How would you feel about a man of God killing someone?"

"What's the reason?"

"To save the life of someone else."

"It depends on the situation, but Sherlock… the bible doesn't say 'thou shalt not kill', it says 'thou shalt not murder'. If, in order to save the life of another person another person has to kill someone… well, again, it depends on the situation, the people involved. I can't give you an answer to hypotheticals, and you shouldn't take anyone's word on something like that. It's something you work out between yourself and God and no one else."

"Is that what faith is?"

"It's a dialogue between you and God. That is faith. You can argue, be angry, be screaming and cursing… but you keep believing. Belief is a choice, not a feeling. Faith is a choice, like a marriage, like a friendship. Sometimes I wake up and just don't feel like being married that day… but I am. Sometimes I don't want to act like a friend even with my best friend. But I do, because I made a commitment."

"John would understand this better," Sherlock said, rubbing his forehead like he had a head ache.

"John is you friend."

"My only friend," Sherlock said, pacing now. He normally wasn't so open, but he felt pushed, pushed into speaking, to getting answers for himself.

"And some days it would be easier to not have to deal with him?"

"Yes… but he stays anyway, not matter what I do… I'm a terrible friend. I'm not sure that's a good analogy."

"You can work on the relationship."

"How, I don't know how," Sherlock said.

"Do something for him once in a while, something he wants."

"He only seems to get hurt because of me, to be in danger."

"Listen, Sherlock, I don't know your friend… I don't know what he's like. But if he's as good as you seem to think he is, I doubt he'd let you speak so badly about yourself."

"No, he wouldn't."

"Then he must see something you can't. Sometimes our best traits aren't things we ourselves can easily see. We just have to trust others."

"I don't trust easily."

"You trust John… you trusted Violet Jacobs enough to let you bring her to me, and you trust me enough to talk to me. You may be selective about your trust, but it seems to me you trust fine… there's just one person you must trust, completely."

"God," Sherlock said with a heavy sigh.

"Yes," Tom said.

"It will be easier if I stop asking questions."

"Yes, but I've never thought that was a good idea. God wants people who think. If you stop asking questions, stop questioning him because it's hard then you will never learn or grow in him… and that's not real faith. That's fear."

"I don't want to be afraid anymore… not like I have been."

"Then don't be… look, something's happened to you today. Whatever it is, just for now ride that feeling and do what you think God wants for you. When the feeling has faded then you can ask questions again… now tell me… if you could have anything right now, what would you want?"

"I want to go home," Sherlock said instantly.

"Then that's where you need to be."

"But I can't."

"Can't, or won't? Is there really anything keeping you away?"

Sherlock hesitated. Moran was heavily under surveillance. Sherlock didn't have to instantly go back to work. He'd been 'dead' for a year. He could go home and be with John, and Mycroft… Mycroft could deal with things… if Sherlock could trust him to do so.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "I think that's what I need."

"Here," Tom said, pulling out his card. "You call me, or email me if you have any questions, if you need anything, even if it's five in the morning, you call me," he said. Sherlock felt floored, realizing that Tom was being earnest.

"Thank you… but I'll try not to call you so early."

"You're welcome. Is there anything else?"

"Can I take one of your bibles?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, it'd be nice if someone read one of them," Tom said, clapping Sherlock on the back and leading him out to 'borrow' one of the pew bibles. Sherlock reminded himself to send money for a new one once he returned to London.

* * *

**A/N: **

**This is a terribly terrifying thing that I'm attempting to do… and if I become a better Christian for writing this… I'm not sure whether I'll cry or laugh or both. Ever get the feeling that God is actively screwing with you? **

**Some pretty straight ups and downs:**

**1. This is a character study. Period. The point is to study Sherlock Holmes if one little (big) thing changed in his life. He just happens to be a character for whom I'd be very interested to see what would happen if something major and yet not in the forefront of his personality got changed. If it really brothers you, then you can get Sherlock an imaginary brain tumor to push on the part of his brain that stimulates faith. **

**2. I'm a Methodist… so Sherlock gets to be a Methodist because it's easier for me to get information on. **

**3. Hypothetically this will be neither pro- nor anti-Christian faith… hypothetically…. It just slips in there without me meaning to and I won't even notice because it's such a part of my brain. I wrote a whole book, reread it many times before I realized just how very… Christian it was, how I never realized it before I'm not sure. This chapter is more pro-Christian simply because it needed to be. Just consider this a scale with weight on both sides.**

**4. If an asshole becomes converted he is merely a converted asshole. Christianity does not mean either instant assholishness, or instant niceness. Neither does Atheism, or any other religion. An asshole is an asshole is an asshole, no matter where in the world he lives or what culture he's from. **

**5. For this story, John is straight and Sherlock is asexual.**

**6. This is not a pairing story. If you want to see a pairing story then read my stories _Just One Mistake _(Irelock) or _I Tried to Spare You _(Mollan). **

**7. Written while listening to hard rock… because nothing says "Sherlock Holmes" or "Christianity" like Five Finger Death Punch at high volume.**

**8. My brain now wants me to spell Harvard with a 'G' instead of an 'H' because I've been taking Russian for too long. **

**Read and review, please. If you hate this I'll have no way of knowing unless you tell me. **

**Seriously, why am I so weird? **


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson did not expect to be walking back into 221b Baker Street for any reason, not at least for a year or more after Sherlock died. He expected to not return almost at all if he could help it. Yet Mrs. Hudson had been so distressed to sign off on a huge delivery of many boxes, only to discover they were for Sherlock. She begged him to come, too distressed to deal with the books on her own. She's cleaned out his science equipment, and his books and his knickknacks (kept the skull and the knife he kept on the mantel, and the mirror over the fireplace). She'd done it all by herself when John had been too afraid and had moved out. She needed him to come now. He couldn't say no.

So he arrived at 221b, his gun in the back waistband of his trousers because he felt safer when he would reach it. He didn't knock, he just entered. "Mrs. Hudson?" he called.

"They're upstairs," Mrs. Hudson said. She had a box cutter in her hands, but they were shaking. She'd probably thought about calling him back over and over and telling him it was silly and just opening the boxes. But it had scared her and she couldn't do this alone. He thought of the woman who'd faked fear in order to have time to protect a phone, even have she'd been handled so roughly. He shut down those thoughts when they led to the memory of Sherlock putting his arm around their landlady and declaring her strength.

"It's okay," John said, taking the box cutter from her hands. He smiled in his most reassuring manner, though he wanted to turn and run just form being there… oh how easy it would be to slip back into his old life, to pretend Sherlock had just gone off on a case and would come back… no, he'd moved beyond that point. He felt a little steadier now than he had when he'd first moved out. He'd left the war with a limp in an uninjured leg. He'd left 221b because he realized how much he wanted to pretend Sherlock was still alive.

He headed up the familiar stairs, glad at how foreign they felt to him now. Familiar and foreign and exactly how they needed to be. Good… moving away had been good. He could face this place now. He could probably even come visit sometimes now. "Have you rented the place out yet?" he asked. He knew Mrs. Hudson kept all the old furniture.

"No, it's still too soon. No one's come who doesn't still have an opinion," she said. Meaning the only people who wanted the place were people who were fans of Sherlock's, or the really weird fans, or who would sneer about Sherlock if they figured out what the place was.

"I'm sorry," John said. No way he'd be able to make the rent now without Sherlock.

"Don't be. We do what we have to."

John sighed and walked into the room. He was momentarily reminded of the Blink Banker case, with the huge amount of boxes. He walked over to the first stack of boxes, looking down at the label. "Mycroft," he muttered, noticing the very nondescript return address. "I'll kill him later," he said, taking the box cutter and tearing through the tape. He pulled open the flaps and in a moment he had the answer to the contents. His eyes saw it, but his brain just would not accept it.

"What the bloody…" he trailed off, pulling out the top book. "_The Bible Now_?" he asked, staring at the white cover with the plain gold and black lettering. "Homosexuality, Abortion, Women, Death Penalty, Earth," he read from the bottom of the book. He looked into the box again, stunned by the array. He noted five separate biographies (Calvin, Wesley, Luther, Wesley twice more). "What the hell?" He asked.

He dragged the top box off, dumping it on the floor and pulling open the middle box once he'd sliced into it. Christian Philosophical thinking. Christian histories. Wesleyan philosophy. He started cutting into the other boxes, all twelve of them. _From Goo to You by Way of the Zoo_, just about every book ever written by C.S. Lewis, _The Shack_. John gave up when got to a book just containing the Apocryphal books of the bible.

"What the hell?" John said. It had never occurred to him that there could be that many Christian books. Oh, he knew there had to be, but a dozen boxes of Christian literature shipped to 221b Baker Street for Sherlock Holmes was just… odd. There wasn't another word for it. John was actually wondering if maybe he'd woken up in the Twilight Zone that morning. He looked over at Mrs. Hudson, who was looking as perplexed as he was, but had already picked from _From Goo to You by Way of the Zoo_ and was thumbing through it. "You know what all this is about?" he asked.

"No, I don't," she said. He didn't think she did, but he just couldn't image what was going on. Who would ever send something like this to Sherlock? An enemy? Not surely a friend? Was there anyone who didn't know about Sherlock's death? Was it a cruel joke to John or Mrs. Hudson? Those questions were getting John nowhere, so he switched tactics. Who could afford to send so many books, some of them rather old and many of them very expensive. "Mycroft," he snarled.

"What?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking up from the book she'd been browsing.

"Mycroft. Who else could have sent this by Mycroft?" John snarled, grabbing his cell phone out of his pocket and starting to dial. It went straight to voicemail. "Mycroft, this isn't funny. This isn't some joke. How dare you ship all these books here? What's gotten into your bloody head? You're going to send someone over to get all these books and take them back!" John snapped into the phone before shutting it.

"Where are you going?" Mrs. Hudson asked, seeing John heading for the door.

"To find Mycroft," he responded, still seething as he left.

* * *

As it turned out, it wasn't very hard to find Mycroft at all. He was at his club and as soon as John arrived he was taken in to a private room where Mycroft was sitting, waiting for him. "What the blood hell was that about, Mycroft?" John snapped.

"A miscalculation on my part," Mycroft said. "I didn't think the books would arrive until tomorrow afternoon. My apologies."

"Why are they addressed to Sherlock?"

Mycroft closed the paper he'd previously been reading. "John, sit down. Don't fight me, just sit down," he said. And John did sit down, surprised by Mycroft's very worried tone. "Something very queer has happened. I don't know how to explain it. I got a phone call a few hours ago, asking me to buy those books and send them to Baker Street."

"You didn't have to send them to Sherlock."

"I did, actually."

"I don't understand," John said. There was something in Mycroft's eyes. Mycroft was trying to tell him something without saying anything; trying to prepare him for something before he had to say it. John braced himself.

"John, Sherlock's alive," Mycroft said.

John sat there for the longest time, letting the words ring around in his head. "This really isn't funny, Mycroft," John said.

"It's not a joke Dr. Watson. I'm glad it's not," Mycroft said. "My brother is currently en route from Hartsfield-Jackson to Heathrow. He'll be here tomorrow morning."

"Mycroft, stop it," John said, looking like a part of him had cracked. "He can't be alive, I saw him jump."

"I too…" Mycroft paused and swallowed. "I too believed he had died. It was a very good set up, but he is very alive, and he'll be home tomorrow morning."

"This can't be real… we buried him."

"it was closed casket for a reason."

"You mean that for half a year I've been… and he's… I'm going to kill him. If he's really alive I'm going to murder him while he sleeps… if he sleeps," John said, looking stunned at the words coming out his mouth. "Why would he…?"

"Moriarty applied some very strong leverage. Had Sherlock come back before he took care of a few… problems, then you and D.I. Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson would have been killed," Mycroft explained. "Sherlock couldn't take that risk."

"So is it… taken care of?"

"To some extent, yet. One of the snipers has kindly promised to provide protection for way. The other died in a motorcycle accident earlier this week. The third is under such tight surveillance that he can't go anywhere without my knowing."

"So… Sherlock's coming home."

"Yes."

"Tomorrow morning," John said.

"Yes, tomorrow morning."

"How should I… tell Mrs. Hudson."

"I'll leave that up to you… John, there's one more thing."

"What else could there possibly be?" John asked. He was clearly in shock.

"Sherlock wanted to tell you all of this on his own, something about making amends." Mycroft's face scrunched up a bit and he looked honestly troubled. "I would have spoken to you later this evening if the books hadn't arrived so quickly. Something very… odd happened to my brother while he was away."

"What?"

"He has informed me that he has had a born again experience."

"A what?" John asked, more surprised than understanding.

"A Christian. A Methodist, to be precise," Mycroft said with a heavy sigh. John momentarily wondered if Mycroft was mourning his brother leaving the side of science, or that Sherlock hadn't decided to be part of the Church of England. He didn't ask.

"Since when?"

"Sunday morning, apparently," Mycroft said.

"It's Tuesday."

"It took a bit of time to clear up the paper work so he wouldn't be dead anymore," Mycroft said simply.

"Sherlock… Sherlock Holmes believes in God?" John asked, not really believing it.

"And Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, as he has informed me," Mycroft said. He looked very put out. "Do you need anything else?"

"No," John said, standing up. Yep, he was definitely in the Twilight Zone. "I'll just go pop and tell Mrs. Hudson, then."

"John, I know you may not be able to deal with all this, but I need you to move back into Baker Street."

"I have a lease," John said, then sighed. Mycroft could undo that very quickly. "Why?"

"Have you met anyone newly converted to anything? It's Sherlock, John. I need to be sure he's not about to run off and do something stupid."

"There's no way to stop that," John said.

"Yes, but your presence might curb him a bit," Mycroft pointed out.

John went silent, hesitating before going to the door. "I'll think about it."

* * *

Sherlock was pouring over the bible he'd been handed by the pastor on his way out of the church. When you had nothing to do for three days it was easy to read something from cover to cover and had Sherlock's reading/comprehension speed, even if it was a few thousand pages. He had an entire flight to deal with. How could he possibly. He wanted to move, to walk to run. He wanted desperately to leap over rooftops in London with John. He wanted to play his Strat. Music, he wanted to write music. He's bought a cheap MP3 Player and headphones just to have something to block out the incessant sound of airplane.

If he were another man his knee would have been twitching to get up and move. He's already gotten up and gone to the bathroom three times just to be able to move around. He was glad Mycroft had arranged an aisle seat. He'd even accepted being stuck in coach, simply because he didn't want Moran to know he was alive until as late as possible.

He ignored the little in-seat TV in favor of a book he's already read, and a Bach concerto he's already heard. Was this really how Moriarty broke into so many places? Stupid of his not to catch the rhythm, and the dancing. Very stupid of Sherlock to have not noticed that.

He set that aside though, his eyes caught again on the words that had been circling his mind since Sunday. _"The God said, "let us make humanking in our image, according to our likeness; and them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild animals of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth." _

He just stared at it, rereading the words while his mind worlds. What did the phrase 'in our image, according to our likeness' mean? Sherlock doubted that it meant physically. It could, but something about that smacked wrong in his mind. He moved onto something else. God gave to the humans dominion over the earth and all other living things. Why? They were made in God's image. They were different, special. Human beings were not the fastest, nor the strongest. They were not the most prolific, nor even could other living things (bacteria, especially) bring not bring humanity to its knees. Yet Humans beings had domesticated the livestock, birds, and cats and dogs and many other animals. They built larger structures, and hard large and evolving cultures. They dominated the earth and skies.

God made humankind in his image, and so allowed them to dominate the earth. God made humankind in his image and so the humans had spread over the world. They had built so many things. They were the supposed care takers of the earth, whether they destroyed it (or themselves in the process). It would be very possible to keep from damaging the ecology of the world if people worked on it, but at some point some balance somewhere had been over turned, but why?

It would be so much easier for Sherlock in his life if people would just think, just use their brains and actually really think…

Sherlock paused his thinking. Was that it?

Human beings conquered the earth because they had the ability to think? God gave humankind dominion over the earth because they had been made in his image. Humankind had been made in God's image because he allowed them to think.

Sherlock smirked, oh that was brilliant.

* * *

**A/N: **

**It's such a weird day when you're reading the bible for a fanfiction… so weird. And the pages are so thin. I need to take notes, dammit! **

**For the official record I'm using the New Revised Standard Version (Harper Collins Study Bible, like anyone cares). I got it when I went through confirmation, and my dad has used it more than me (the few times he's misplaced his bible). **

**Sherlock starts with Genesis, but I'm not going to go book for book, because I need to have a life of my own and that would kill me. Also, _The Bible Now_, is a book I got and only started reading because I'm working on this. I know the irony of reading bible-things for Sherlock Holmes fanfiction is just… like bizarre. I just don't even know where to begin with how weird this is. _From Good to You by Way of the Zoo_ if a painfully funny book for intelligent design. Whatever you believe, the book is still painfully funny. The Apocryphal (Aprocrypha?) books are ones that aren't included in Protestant texts for reasons. My copy has them, but they're not a standard, certainly not for the type of bible Sherlock pinched on his way out of the sanctuary.**

**Also, no, I honestly don't think Sherlock is someone who would be converted, just writing it I'm sure… but just bare with me. I might go back and rewrite chapter 1 later once I get a handle on this Sherlock a little more. My Inner Sherlock loves to torture me, that he does. **

**Man, short chapter is shorter than I wished it was. I'm getting a bowl of cereal and putting myself in bed. **

**I know this is a weird story. I'd love reviews, but I respect that this isn't really most people's cup of tea. I'm grateful to have gotten one so far. **


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